


This Place is a Shelter

by ashes_of_roses (KendraLuehr)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, One Shot, Pillow Talk, Scar Worship, Scars, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 12:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18446600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendraLuehr/pseuds/ashes_of_roses
Summary: Will laid sprawled across his couch. The fan blades whirred and he drowsily opened and closed his eyes, running his fingers through Abigail’s hair as she remained curled against his flank, both sleepy and half-dressed. This, he realized, was all he had ever wanted. (One-Shot)





	This Place is a Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> **Co-written with voidsmoocher/childofbloodandbone from Tumblr.**

It was hot that afternoon –  _exceptionally_  hot – and Will found himself sprawled across his couch encircled by all the fans he owned. The blades whirred and he drowsily opened and closed his eyes, running his fingers through Abigail’s hair as she remained curled against his flank, both half-dressed. Normally, he would complain that it was too hot for physical contact, but this was Abigail. He could never say no to anything she desired.

With her head tucked carefully beneath his chin, Will nuzzled his cheek into her hair and exhaled. Idly, he could feel her touch ghost along the jagged scar tissue on his stomach. He instinctively flinched, his hand clasping perhaps too tightly around her wrist. Sometimes at night, he found that it still hurt. It was the ugliest part of him – the ugliest  _reminder_  – and even though Abigail shared in the memories of that scar, he didn’t want her acknowledging it. “Don’t,” he brokenly pleaded.

Sweat slipped down Abigail’s back and where they touched, sticky and hot, but it wasn’t so uncomfortable that she would pull away. She was far too sated and pliant against him, almost purring as his fingers ran through her hair. The fans provided just enough comfort to make this whole interaction bearable. She had been lazily dragging her fingers over his chest, sliding over the sheen of sweat and sometimes drawing random shapes. He was almost asleep, she could tell, his breathing deep and slow. When he was this relaxed, she found him usually at his happiest.

She thought then that maybe he would allow her wandering fingers to slide down his sternum, to his stomach, to gently trail over the puckered skin curving across his belly. But she was wrong. He captured her, grip tight against her slim wrist. Her face crumpled sadly at his voice. She knew he still was struggling with his scar, but she had hoped maybe she could soothe him in his current state. She understood things like this needed time –  _god,_  did she understand. Scars were her specialty. He had gathered an impressive amount as well. She doesn’t say anything for a while, her eyes turning upwards to try and look at his face.

“Sorry,” she said quietly, placing a small kiss under his chin to placate him.

The guilt screamed at him, almost like painful, wailing banshees circling in his head. Eyes fluttering, Will shifted and felt Abigail’s lips apologetically press beneath his chin. She had nothing to be sorry for. It was his own goddamn neuroses that triggered his volatile response.

Abigail shifted against him. “You know, I still have my scar cream…” Alana had bought it for her during the early days of her hospitalization, and she had picked it up again after having all her efforts tossed out the window. “If you want, it helps... Helps make it fade.”

Her offer touched something deep inside of Will – as frail and fractured as she already was, Abigail seemed willing to bear the weight of his own burdens on top of her own. Chin quivering, he reached out a hand and cupped her cheek, lightly tracing his fingers along the curve of her face before trailing across her full, parted lips. He loved looking at her – he loved reminding himself that she was his and he was hers. “I don’t need it,” he whispered. “Not when I have you.”

“As great as I am, I can’t make scars fade,” Abigail quipped, tilting her face to nuzzle against him.

Abigail’s joke took Will off-guard and he chuckled, brushing his thumb across her chin. “Well, I guess that ruins my plans for later this evening,” he ribbed.

Pressing his forehead to hers, his hand began to tremble as he reached down and clasped her wrist – much more gently this time – and placed it over his long, jagged scar. When Abigail’s fingertips first touched his skin, he inhaled sharply, keeping his eyes closed. It hurt to be this intimate – it  _hurt_  to trust someone so completely as to share the ugliest, most painful part of himself, but he wanted Abigail to know that that person was her.  _She_  was the one he trusted and  _she_  was the one he loved most.

Abigail didn’t want to make him feel like he had to do anything, didn’t want to rush him. Her fingers withdrew as she watched his pained face, shaking her head shortly.

“You don’t have to… I know how long it takes for a scar to heal…long past when the skin’s knit itself back together.” It’s a humbling thing, him allowing her to touch where he probably felt he was most vulnerable. But he didn’t have to do it if it made him uncomfortable. “If you need time, I can wait. I’m not goinganywhere.”

Will immediately shook his head. “I…want you to,” he choked. He knew it sounded faulty, given the soft catch in his voice, but he loved her. He painfully, achingly  _loved_  her, and although he could never bring himself to say the words aloud, he hoped she would be able to feel it in the way he welcomed her in ways he never had with anyone else. Hannibal had been able to see Will’s mind, but only Abigail had seen into his soul.

Stroking her cheek with his thumb, Will traced along the gentle slope before kissing the freckles that dusted her nose. “I’m already healing,” he promised. “You’ve helped me in ways I never thought possible. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe I’m human again.” He laughed softly, although it was a harsh, bitter sound. “Before you came back into my life, I didn’t want to live. I was a coward. I  _am_  a coward…but at least now I have you again.”

Abigail softened. She wondered if her feelings for him were palpable, if her affection and love for him practically radiated off her skin or shone from her eyes. She shyly lowered them to watch his hand over hers. To wear her heart on her sleeve like that had only gotten her into trouble in the past, and as much as she felt secure here, pressed against his side, there would always be a fear of abandonment. Of being  _alone_. She could feel the cavern of loneliness gaping in her chest, waiting, ready to swallow her up at the earliest opportunity. 

His earlier words struck a chord in her chest, and Abigail unfurled her small hand along his scar. She could feel the almost smooth rise of skin, could remember where the stitches had been when she’d first seen it – when he had shown her in the hospital. His grip was firm and sure, even if his voice wasn’t, and she accepted his offer, if not a little warily, her gaze flicking back to his face as his thumb slid over her cheek. She giggled as he kissed her nose, such a small and tender thing that was able to make her chest feel light. 

Although his words started out sweet, they quickly deteriorated to saying terrible things about himself and she pulled away slightly, her jaw setting. 

“Stop that,” she snapped. Abigail’s tone was hushed and she sounded mildly miffed – no, she was _definitely_ miffed. “You’re not allowed to say that kind of stuff about yourself.”  _Petulant,_ she immediately thought, once the words left her mouth. But was it really so petulant to not want someone you loved to say bad things about themselves? There was a sudden cold stab of realization – that ** _she_**  was the one who had called him a coward first, and she cringed, teeth working her lower lip. “And neither am I,” she tacked on, guilt filling up her chest like a sinking boat taking on dark seawater. “I’m sorry.” She was breathless with the weight her words held to him. That fight was dead and buried, but she felt the need to apologize again with the revival of her shameful words - and again and again - but she restrained herself. 

Abigail’s reprimand was sharp, but Will did not flinch. He knew she had a right to be angry. Hell, he was angry with himself – it seemed that no matter what he did, he was incapable of accepting that he could be happy. That he  _was_  happy. Abigail brought him joy and pleasure, and reminded him that beneath the dark shadows and deceit, there was a person – a completely  _revived_  person – just screaming to get out.

Further apologies began to tumble out of Abigail’s mouth, and Will shushed her, cupping her face between his hands as he kissed her forehead. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he murmured. “You were just hurt and angry, and you had every right to feel that way.” He offered a weak smile. “I can be very hard to swallow sometimes.” 

Abigail was immovable. “You’re  _not_  a coward, but you  _are_  human, and I’m glad you’re alive,” she continued, leaning in to press a kiss against his cheek, littering smaller ones down to his jaw. “Very,  _very_  glad. And this,” she leaned up again, looking down at his scar as her fingers continued tracing it gently,  _“This_ is important too. Survivors have scars. Victims have graves.” She wanted to help him, to give him the confidence she hadn’t quite yet acquired for herself. 

Abigail’s words caused his chest to tighten. Had anyone ever told him that before, Will wondered? Had anyone ever  _truly_  been grateful to him – been  _glad_  he was there, and actually  _loved_  him? There had been his father, absolutely – there was no disputing that. But all his life, he’d never encountered a woman who was willing to offer any sort of affection. Occasionally, he would have a friend or lover or girlfriend, but the relationships never lasted. He was intentionally self-destructive. In the long run, he figured it was better to end things while they were still good, rather than prolonging the inevitable: they would leave, and he would yet again be alone. But he didn’t want Abigail to leave. He didn’t  _want_  to destroy their bond, because the two of them were already so jaded and broken, and yet their shattered pieces fit together just right. With her, he no longer felt as if he were missing parts of himself, or that he was just some hollow husk.

Leaning into the kisses Abigail pressed to his jaw, Will’s bottom lip quivered and he closed his eyes. Her fingers felt soft and soothing against his scar, almost like a gentle balm, and his breath hitched as he pressed his cheek against her crown.  _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou,_  he wanted to scream, but instead wrapped his arms around her shoulders and rained kisses over her eyes, nose and lips – anywhere he could reach.  _You are perfect, you are mine, and I love you._

It took a moment for Will to realize he’d been crying. He could taste his tears on his tongue as he pressed into Abigail’s mouth, his hands cupping her face before stroking back her hair. “Stay with me,” he pleaded against her lips. Perhaps his words lacked context, but it was his way of asking her to never leave him – to  _staystaystay_  and be with him always.

Abigail fell into silence as her fingers went back over his scar, mulling briefly on what it would’ve been like if she hadn’t survived; something that was a morbid, but also familiar passing thought. Thinking of her death didn’t upset her so much anymore – living with Hannibal and being witness to his monstrous hobby had kept her mortality at the front of her brain always. Not that she wasn’t already aware how fragile and fleeting life could be, but the way Hannibal had moved through all the death with such – really, all she could call it was grace – had put an unsettling stillness in her gut. It was so easy for him. She had feared if his interest in her withered somehow, that she might become the next victim, served up with not even a bat of an eyelash on his part. He’d taken value in her, he’d had some kind of trust and appreciation stocked in her, but she’d never been fully convinced she was safe. She had _never_ been safe, living on borrowed time ever since the first time her father’s knife had sliced into her skin.

Ironically enough, it wasn’t anything she did that ended up determining her fate, but instead what _Will_ did.

But if she had died, who would’ve been there to assure him he was worthy of the life he owned? Would anyone try to help him? He felt fragile despite his arms circling around her. She smiled, but it was supported by sadness as he pecked kisses over her face, seemingly struck by the bare idea of being wanted. She felt his loneliness echo in her chest – and despite his lack of receiving it, he gave her so much love it was jostling. It warmed her, and not warm like the almost one-hundred-degree warmth that the weather provided, but the soft warmth that made her know she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to.

And then, she was abruptly aware that he was crying, tears wetting her face as he kissed her needily. She raised her hands to his cheeks to wipe them away, trying to shush him in between his urgent kisses, trying to comfort him. It felt like this was a common pattern for them, falling apart in each other’s arms. They both probably needed some kind of therapy, but she was sure neither of them would ever seek it anytime soon. They could manage with just having each other.

Will’s words planted themselves in her chest, the words of someone gripping onto a life raft in the middle of a storm, half-drowned. To say she could save him would be dangerous. But she could stay. She knew she could at least do that.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said quietly, running a hand through his hair affectionately, trying to soothe him. Like she could ever leave. Like she could ever find someplace or some _one_  who made her feel like this… She wasn’t complaining. But it _was_ a little scary, having so much to lose suddenly, where once the only thing she’d had to worry about was her own life. Now, she had something to lose: some semblance of happiness, a twisted kind of normalcy. _Him._ Someone who looked at everything she’d done and didn’t call her a monster. She didn’t think she was perfect in his eyes, but whatever he saw her as, it was enough.

She had the sudden impulse to press her lips against the scar curving across Will’s stomach, probably the only place she hadn’t really been “allowed.” She kissed his wet cheek before sliding down, resting between his legs as she nuzzled the scar. She knew how ugly scars could feel, but she wanted to let him know it was nothing. She pushed her hair to one side as the tip of her nose glided over the pink line, a small smile on her face. 

“I just want you to be  **okay**.”

Abigail’s touch returned to his stomach, and Will’s eyelids fluttered, his hands twitching with the yearning to close around her wandering fingers. He hated having the ugliest parts of himself acknowledged. As much as she deserved to heal by addressing that fateful night, it still felt akin to being cut open all over again. Abigail understood, but he also had a maddening need to shield her from re-living that experience ever again.

Her hands came to his cheeks then, and Will blinked through the tears as she wiped the evidence away. He hated crying – he hated  _acknowledging_  that he was weak – but with her and her alone, he felt safe. She did not judge, she did not jeer, and she most certainly didn’t demand to know  _why_  he sometimes woke up screaming, nor why he would fall apart over his morning coffee, or just stare into space for hours. She knew. She  _knew,_  because they were one in the same, and never again would he be able to find someone who completed him in this way. Not ever. Perhaps it should be frightening to find himself so  _consumed_  by another person, but he wasn’t. He  _welcomed_  the fiery need he held as if Abigail’s very lips were holy. 

And then suddenly, she was…oh,  _God._

Eyes squeezing shut, Will’s breath hitched and he arched, an unsettling amalgam of lust and nausea clawing at his insides as Abigail pressed her full, sensual mouth against his scar. Her kisses were soft and wet, and he groaned softly, taking a fistful of her hair as she grew  _much, much too close_  to where he needed to be touched. Her devotion made his eyes burn. She was worshiping the  _ugliest part of him,_  and pleading with him to be okay. 

“I’ve never been okay,” Will whispered, gently carding his fingers through her hair, “but at least with you, I feel good…I feel  _whole._  I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way before.”

“I feel good, too,” Abigail softly assured him. _“Better_ than good.”

Eyes shining with fondness, Will cupped her cheeks and drew her back up for a warm, fervent kiss that lit through his bloodstream. She was by him, _in_ him, swimming through his veins and painting him more beautifully than the most effervescent, glorious dawn sky. He never wanted to leave her side again. And as he clasped her to his chest, feeling their heartbeats sync in time with one another, he knew he was exactly where he needed to be... _home._


End file.
